


This Motley Drama

by Adara_Rose



Series: Harry Potter head canon [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: Dean's wife learnt in her childhood to not speak ill of the dead.Not even when she hates them.Not even when they took her husband from her the moment they died.(sequel to 'hallelujah')





	

“My mother likes to say that you shalt not speak ill of the dead. Which is bull, if you ask me. She usually says it when someone accidentally brings up my grandfather being an abusive drunk.”

The words nearly explode from the lips of the very pretty witch on the other side of the table. She has long black hair over her shoulder in a thick braid, and her large doe-eyes are a deep, rich brown. It’s the sort of eyes that would be lovely if there wasn’t so much impotent anger in them.

“I am my mother’’s daughter, and I won’t speak ill of the dead.” She says, as if trying to calm herself after a great turmoil. 

She falls into silence, her hands opening and closing like the paws of an angry cat.

“This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life” she finally says, struggling to keep her anger at bay. On her finger gleams a gold ring.

“A new wife to a man I love, and we should be starting our life together. And here I sit, alone. He hasn’t spoken to me since… since we came home. Since we… were told.”

Her fingers clench. The gold gleams against her dark skin.

“FUcking bastard” she whispers, more to herself. “Spectre of damnation, that’s what he is. Standing between us. He always has, you know? Always there, in the periphery. Watching my Dean -  _ my Dean _ \- with those wide, pleading eyes. Pathetic.” Her lips twist, making her look ugly. Then her face smooths, her jaw clenches. 

“No, you shalt not speak ill of the dead.” She repeats, like a mantra.

“I knew of course” she ventures, after a few moments of silence. “I¨m not blind. But I thought… I thought. When he proposed. Gods, I don’t know what I thought. That I had won, maybe. That he was mine, for real. We were going to have kids, a house, happy ever after. I don’t… I don’t think we can have that, now. I don’t think I want to anymore.” She laughs, bitterly. “Triumph goeth before the fall, isn’t that the quote? Or is it pride? It doesn’t matter. The moment we came back… and he heard...” She clenches her jaw, forces herself to reign in her emotions.

“I stopped existing, you know? One moment he saw me and the next I was a piece of furniture. My husband. He walked straight past me. Just… saw straight through me.” 

For a moment, the veils of fury and rage shift and the heartbreak shines through. Then it’s gone, like a shield once more being raised.

“I… I always knew he was a rival, you know? Oh, not an obvious one or even an honest one. But a rival nonetheless. It’s a bit hard to compete with twenty years of close friendship that is constantly on the cusp of becoming more. But… but I really thought…” she looks down at the ring. “He even made a speech to me on our wedding, do you remember that? You were there. Talked about how grateful he was to me for making Dean happy. Lying through his teeth, he was. I saw it. I think everyone saw it. Everyone except Dean. And I… I was so relieved. That Dean didn’t see. I thought I was safe. It was me he married, right? It was me he  _ chose _ .” 

Her fists clench. Her jaw, too.

“The first few days I thought he took him from me. Now… Now I'm starting to think that maybe… maybe I got it wrong. It was me. I took him. I… I’m the intruder. Not him.”

The veil shifts again, allowing the pain shine through. This time it’s tempered with guilt.

“Maybe… maybe it was my fault. I mean… he did it on our honeymoon. Like… he smiled and waved as he saw us off and then he went home and… they say it was poison.”

She finally looks at the woman behind the camera.

“Did he suffer?” She demands. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I don’t know if it’d make it better or worse. Damn him. Damn him to hell.”

Her face twists, a mask of rage and pain and guilt. She buries her face in her hands, as if wanting to hide.

“I… I didn’t like him when he was alive” she chokes out. “But now, now that he's dead? Now I fucking hate him. I fucking hate him.  _ But I will not speak ill of the dead. _ ”

Silence. Moments pass. Finally, she raises her head. The anger is still there, but now it’s tempered by weariness.

“I… I never liked him _ -Seamus-  _ when he was alive. But now… gods, I hate him. Because now? Now he’s  _ perfect. _ ”

The screen turns dark.  


End file.
